The Eaves of Heaven by Andrew X. Pham - Excerpt

Pham_9780307381217_1p_fm_r1.
qxp 2/26/09 7:09 PM Page iii
Th e E a v e s
of
H e av e n
Pham_9780307381217_1p_fm_r1.qxp 2/26/09 7:09 PM Page vi
by
A n d re w X . P h am
on behalf of my father,
Thong Van Pham

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Th e E av e s
of
H e av e n
A Life
in
Three Wars
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Copyright © 2008 by Andrew Pham
All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by
Three Rivers Press, an imprint of the
Crown Publishing Group, a division of
Random House, Inc., New York.
www.crownpublishing.com
Three Rivers Press and the Tugboat

design are registered trademarks of
Random House, Inc.
Originally published in hardcover in

the United States by Harmony Books,
an imprint of the Crown Publishing
Group, a division of Random House, Inc.,
New York, in 2008.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-

Publication Data
Pham, Andrew X., 1967–
The eaves of heaven : a life in three
wars / by Andrew X. Pham on behalf of
my father, Thong Van Pham.—1st ed.
1. Pham, Thong Van. 2. Vietnamese
Americans—Biography. 3. Refugees—
United States—Biography. 4. Vietnam—
History—20th century. I. Title.
e184.v53p4554 2008
973'.0495—dc22
[b] 2007033894
isbn 978-0-307-38121-7
Printed in the United States of America
design by barbara sturman
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Paperback Edition
www.ThreeRiversPress.com
To purchase a copy of
The Eaves of Heaven

visit one of these online retailers:

Amazon
Barnes & Noble
Borders
IndieBound
Powell’s Books
Random House
Pham_9780307381217_1p_fm_r1.qxp 2/26/09 7:09 PM Page xi
If I could,
I would trade
a thousand
years to hear
my mother’s
laughter.
t r a n t r u n g dao
Pham_9780307381217_1p_fm_r1.qxp 2/26/09 7:09 PM Page xiii
contents
Author’s Note xv
prologue 쏔 Ancestors 1
1 쏔 Leaving Home 5
2 쏔 Father 14
3 쏔 Phan Thiet 19
4 쏔 Mother 28
5 쏔 Dalat Days 32
6 쏔 The Mid-Autumn Festival 41
7 쏔 Sea Grubs 49
8 쏔 Saigon Night 51
9 쏔 Cricket Fight 57
10 쏔 The Recruiter 64
11 쏔 Hoi and I 71
12 쏔 The Draft 80
13 쏔 The Orphan 91
14 쏔 Famine 97
15 쏔 The Famine Soup 99
16 쏔 The Flood 105
Pham_9780307381217_1p_fm_r1.qxp 2/26/09 7:09 PM Page xiv
17 쏔 The Ambush 107

18 쏔 The Last Magistrate 120
19 쏔 The Democratic Republic of Vietnam 124
20 쏔 The Trap 129
21 쏔 The Algerian 144
22 쏔 The Resistance Fighter 154
23 쏔 The Tet Offensive 164
24 쏔 The Executioner 172
25 쏔 Old Friends 184
26 쏔 The Champagne Bottle 200
27 쏔 The Slave 210
28 쏔 A Lull of Silence 213
29 쏔 Crossing the French Line 220
30 쏔 The Fall of Saigon 226
31 쏔 The Widower 241
32 쏔 The Capture 251
33 쏔 The Peasant Girl 267
34 쏔 Reeducation 276
35 쏔 Farewell, Hanoi 284
36 쏔 The Release 294
Bibliography 299
Acknowledgments 301
Pham_9780307381217_1p_fm_r1.qxp 2/26/09 7:09 PM Page xv
a u t h o r ’s n o t e
It seems that as memoirists, we are not historians, not even

of our own lives. That is the job of biographers. Memoirs
are our love letters and our letters of apologies, both. They
hold our few gems, the noteworthy lessons of our journeys.
I did not set out to write my father’s biography. I have
not written my father’s memoir. I have lent his life stories
my words. The perspectives and sentiments within are his.
Except for the obvious and the famous, many names
have been changed, primarily to make it easier for people
who may not want to appear in his life story.
This work, the distillation of years of collaboration,
has been my greatest pleasure and honor.
A n d re w X . P h am
Pham_9780307381217_1p_01_r1.qxp 2/26/09 7:09 PM Page 1
t h e n o rt h
1940
prologue
Ancestors
M y family came from the Red River Delta, an allu-
vial plain of raven earth and limitless water. It was an
exceptionally fertile country, though not a youthful
land with treasures to be plundered. What riches it had,
it yielded solely to sweat and toil. It had known cen-
turies of peasant hands.
Generations beyond recall, my ancestors had tilled
this soil where fortunes were made and reversed by
countless successions of insurgencies, raids, and wars.
The rise of our clan began with my great-great-great-
grandfather Hao Pham, a noted officer in King Nguyen
Anh’s army. For his battlefield victories against rebel-
lious warlords, he was awarded a vast tract of land after
the king’s unification of Viet Nam in 1802. As was cus-
tomary in the feudal order for the richest man in the
area, he won the privilege of lord proctorship over
all the villages within a day’s ride by horseback of his
home. He assumed the post, raised a big family with
three wives, and lived out his days in comfort. When he
1
2 • a n d re w x . p h am
retired, his eldest son succeeded him, acquiring the same commis-
sion. Later, in the French colonial period, when the clan’s property
had grown even larger, his grandson became domain magistrate. So
it went from generation to generation, both land and titles passed as
birthrights from fathers to the firstborn sons. By the time of my
grandfather and father, ours grew to be one of the two richest clans
in the province, our holdings spreading out to the horizon.
Still, it was a realm of rice paddies, mud houses, and shoeless
peasants. It was a world before the arrival of electricity, banks, and
refrigeration. In the whole province, there were only two cars. My
uncle Thuan owned one, but kept it merely as a modern marvel. He
was more comfortable astride a horse. In our village of a thousand
souls, there was a single firearm—a double-barreled shotgun Uncle
used to hunt birds. For weaponry, there were swords, spears, and
martial arts. The only other technological intrusions into our village
were two mechanical clocks; my father owned one, and my uncle
owned the other. Prized collectibles, neither was used to tell the hour.
For that, there were the crows of the cock, the height of the sun, and
the length of one’s shadow. The average peasant owned three sets
of clothes, brown or black pajamas, the same exact outfit in varying
degrees of wear, with the newest reserved for holidays and temple
visits. He rose before dawn and labored till dusk, and might expect
to have a small amount of meat with his dinner. In the material
sense, it was a simpler world. There was little, and yet everything,
to be desired. Though perhaps as flatlanders we lacked imagination.
Folks prayed for good health, good weather, and good crops. And
that strange year, the last of the good years, all things were granted.
Heaven laid the seal of prosperity upon our land. We were blessed
with the most bountiful harvest in memory.
That summer, Uncle Thuan, the head of our clan, confessed to
his third wife that he believed the wind of fortune was shifting, and
that, at thirty-nine years of age, he felt disaster looming. Omens had
shown themselves. First, the string of good years crowned by a his-
toric crop signaled a grave imbalance in nature; another cycle was
t h e e av e s o f h e av e n • 3
approaching. Second, a crow, that provincial harbinger of death, had
alighted in his courtyard and stared into his audience hall. The scare-
crows he had erected hadn’t prevented the cursed bird from paying
him another visit. Last, he dreamt that the bamboo hedge encircling
our ancestral estate was filled with voices speaking a foreign tongue;
an evil had laid siege to our home. Within days of this nightmare,
talk of war was rampant throughout the countryside. Disturbing
reports came through his intelligence channels. The underground
worlds were gathering their forces. A great storm approached, so
warned his Nationalist informants; so concurred his Communist
agents. Then, the colonial French suppressed and denied the rumor,
which naturally made it a fact. The shadow of war had fallen upon
the world. Dark days would sweep down from China. Within weeks,
World War II would reach the Red River Delta on the heels of the
Japanese army and mark the downfall of our clan.
the south
m ay 1 9 5 6
1 . L e av i n g H o m e
R ight after my high school graduation in 1956, I found
myself on a bus headed north to a small coastal town
where a summer teaching position awaited me. Outside
the windows, the ratty fringe of Saigon slipped away—
dirt lanes and sewage creeks banked by weathered shacks
and smoldering fires. Women stooped with age swept
smooth the bare ground in front of their homes. Naked
toddlers stood in doorways, knuckling sleep from their
eyes. Fresh incense on roadside altars sent tendrils of
prayers heavenward. Above the mottled tin roofs, early
sun flicked through the foliage. A breeze carried the
grassy scent of paddy water. I was twenty-one and strik-
ing out on my own for the first time. I had a suitcase
with two pairs of slacks, three white shirts, underwear, a
toothbrush, a bar of soap, and a comb. My first week’s
wages would afford me another pair of trousers and a
shirt. It wouldn’t be appropriate for the students to no-
tice their new teacher’s meager wardrobe.
Passengers outnumbered seats on the bus, but the
5
driver kept on picking up more people along the way, the ticket-man
happily pocketing their fares. The bag-man roped the luggage to-
gether in a great camel-hump on the roof: bamboo cages of ducks
and chickens, wooden crates, boxes, rucksacks, bundles of fresh vege-
tables. A number of people spent their whole trip standing or sitting
on their valises crammed in the aisle. Some used the bus as a local
shuttle service to nearby villages.
It was a Friday, so there were plenty of travelers, too many tod-
dlers for a peaceful journey. Somewhere up front, a baby wailed re-
lentlessly. A ruckus broke out at the rear. A rooster had gotten loose
and half the bus erupted into flurries of hands, feathers, and screams.
The owner leaped over two rows of seats, caught his rooster by the
neck, and landed in the lap of a merchant woman. She said, “Thank
you, Buddha, but what’s a granny like me to do with two roosters?”
Trader-women hooted. A plump matron said, “I’ll take the big one,
he’s not so bad looking.” Another chortled and said, “The feathery
one has more stud potential.” They cackled, and the man, red-faced,
crept back to his seat with his bird tucked safely in a sack. The
women continued cajoling as though they were sitting at home.
Their cheerful mood was infectious, and I felt rather buoyant, even
though I was wedged between an old man, who squatted barefoot in
his seat, and the window. But having the window was enough for me
to consider this as a propitious beginning. Lightheaded with free-
dom, I felt as though I was flying on newly discovered wings.
It seemed so effortless, as if I had, by receiving a diploma,
strolled through a magical portal, and left behind my whole family
crowded in a shed of a house. The ease by which this job came to
me made it seem like destiny. Things had been difficult since we fled
Hanoi two years ago, so I loved feeling that I was at last on the right
path. All I did was answer the first ad I saw in the Saigon Daily. It
was a math and science position at a private school. After a few let-
ters, I was granted an interview.
The principal came to my family’s noodle shop. Mr. Thinh
Nguyen was a short, thick-bodied man in his late forties, with a
small hump on his back, which he immediately explained was from a
motorcycle accident. Despite this handicap, he was elegant in his
movements and had the graceful glide-walk of a short-legged man.
He smoked small French-style cigarettes made in Vietnam.
By our accents, we knew we were both northerners. As it turned
out, he had studied in Hanoi and roomed not far from our old neigh-
borhood. I told him my family were refugees, arriving two years ago
under the Geneva Accord, which gave the Vietnamese Communists
the northern half of the country. He said he had to leave his home a
few years before then. Like most refugees, he didn’t talk about why
he fled or what he left behind, and that was fine with me. Everyone
had lost something. No one willingly chose an impoverished exile,
dislocated from his birth-village and the spirits of his ancestors. I re-
spected his silence and he did not press me for details of our plight.
I appreciated the courtesy. Looking around at the rancid hovel in
which my entire family lived and worked—the crude tables, the dirt
floor, the windowless loft—I thought it would sound vaunted or,
perhaps, blatantly false if I tried to explain who we once were, or
spoke of our lineage. It wasn’t shame; we were beyond that.
As soon as we started talking about my academic records, he
switched over to French. I liked it because I felt more comfortable in
French when speaking with superiors and elders. French was more
egalitarian than Viet. It was generous of him. Besides, it was natural
for us to speak French, since it had been the official language of aca-
demia in Vietnam for longer than we had been alive. Generations of
Vietnamese students spent lifetimes in classrooms speaking, writ-
ing, reading, and breathing French texts. So it did not seem ironic to
me then that we sat there, two North Vietnamese exiles in a dark and
greasy noodle shop on the edge of Saigon, conversing in French when
neither one of us had ever set foot in France. We both had suits of
Parisian cut and sported Western haircuts, and were more well-read
in French poetry and European literature than most French soldiers.
And yet, if we saw a Frenchman strolling toward us, we might, out of
revulsion, cross the road to avoid him. The language had become a
condition of our lives. It did not occur to us to scorn it or discard it

from our tongues. It would have been impossible to try.
As the principal started talking about his school, his quaint
town, and the fine French things he enjoyed, I thought of the mani-
cured villas around our neighborhood in Hanoi; the fabulous bistros
my father frequented with the whole family; the bouillabaisse, the
croissants, and the ice cream. The best times of my life in Hanoi
came flitting back into my head. Soon I was swimming in romanti-
cism, drawing parallels between Hanoi and Phan Thiet, even though
the most I’d seen of Phan Thiet until then had been little sketches on
the labels of fish sauce bottles. As for the looks of the town or its
people, I hadn’t a clue, although I imagined it to be some idyllic fish-
ing village of white beaches lined with coconut palms, maybe with an
ice cream parlor where I could enjoy a peach melba after a swim.
“Most of my teachers are moonlighting from the public schools.
You won’t feel alone,” he said after we had chatted amiably for about
an hour. “I only have three teachers on my permanent staff, and this
position is for the only full-time science-math teacher for the tenth,
eleventh, and twelfth grades. It’s only three morning classes and the
job comes with room and board. Do you think you’re ready to
teach?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Congratulations, you’ve got the job. With your father’s per-
mission, we’ll start you in your own classroom next week.”
My father was concerned, with good reason, that a job far from
home might sidetrack me from my goal of a higher education. How-
ever, he disapproved of my recent involvement in students’ political
demonstrations, some of which had turned violent. He knew that a
summer out of town would keep me out of trouble. On top of that,
we needed the money. Our pho restaurant, my father’s ill-conceived
attempt to bring northern cooking to the southerners, was on the
verge of collapse, taking with it the last bit of a mighty family for-
tune that went back many generations. We had lost everything in
the fall of Hanoi. With financial catastrophe looming, he swallowed
his protests and made me promise that I would write every week and
return to attend Saigon University in the fall.
To escape, I would have promised him all the fish in the Saigon
River.
On the 28th of July, two years ago, my family had

fled Hanoi in a huge Dakota cargo plane. We were traveling with my
stepmother’s parents and their other daughter, who was my age. The
cargo hold was packed with refugees sitting on the baseboard of the
plane and clinging to straps and netting. We landed at Saigon’s air-
port. Disoriented after a long and turbulent flight, we stumbled off
the plane, anxious to get out of the cramped hold and put our feet on
the ground again. Half the people were covered in vomit. We hud-
dled in the shade of the plane, each toting a single allotted valise, and
squinted at our new homeland. It felt like a foreign country.
The airport was three times larger than Gia Lam Airport in
Hanoi. The tarmac sprawled in every direction. Buildings and gigan-
tic hangars lined the long runway. Squadrons of warplanes and cargo
carriers were parked in neat rows. The humid air was impregnated
with the sting of fuel and engine exhaust. Convoys of trucks rum-
bled back and forth across the tarmac. Crews were unloading and
refueling the cargo planes. They were flying nonstop around the
clock, transporting refugees, French troops, and equipment out of the
North. A somber mood of retreat permeated the scene.
A fat Chinese-Vietnamese man wearing a khaki colonial hat, a
white short-sleeved shirt, khaki pants, and a pair of sandals took a
list from the French sergeant, and then came forward to welcome us
with open arms. He beamed a generous smile, which immediately
put us North Vietnamese on guard.
“Welcome to Saigon, misses and children. My name is Mr.
Fourth,” he said.
It took us a moment to grasp his southern accent. Among other
things, he got the “v” and “o” sounds mixed up with the “z” and “u.”
His phrasing sounded very odd. Older people flinched, as North

Vietnamese commonly addressed a group by saying “Dear ladies,
dear gentlemen.” I would later learn that “misses and children” was
the southern way of saying “folks” and that South Vietnamese sel-
dom called each other by their first names, but by the order of their
birth. If a man was the firstborn, they called him “Second” because
the title “First” belonged to the village headman. Accordingly, Mr.
Fourth was the third-born in his family.
He had us board two buses to go to our temporary lodgings.
Outside the airport, orchards and houses lined the busy, fume-
choked road. Without rice fields, the land looked drier than in the
North. We passed through a tin-shack slum. The air above the roofs
wavered with heat. It was a sprawl of rust and decay. The streets
were bare, unpaved. Mounds of putrid garbage stewed in the sun.
There wasn’t a single tree to shoulder the searing heat. Women wore
pajama-like clothes and wrapped checkered scarves on their heads.
Most men went shirtless and shoeless, covering themselves with
only a pair of shorts or a sarong that came halfway down their thighs.
There were small groceries, motorbike repair shops, and fruit vendors
with strange bright-colored fruits piled high in baskets and bananas
hanging under the awnings. Closer to Saigon proper, there were more
two- and three-story buildings, dwellings mixed in with shops and
warehouses. Every sidewalk was teeming with kiosk-diners filled
with shirtless men drinking. People ate right on the street, their
backs to the thrumming traffic, their heads swimming in engine ex-
haust. It was a sobering sight because in Hanoi only the expensive
restaurants and bistros put tables on the sidewalk. The cheapest ven-
dors would be the ones putting low benches on the side of the road
for customers. In Hanoi everyone was fully clothed; even laborers
didn’t go outside shirtless, much less sit down to eat. Saigon seemed
to me a very unruly, graceless city. It might have been uplifting to
see the city center, but the bus took a meandering route, veering on
the outskirts and turning onto one small street after another until
we arrived in Saigon’s Chinatown.
Compared to Hanoi’s Chinatown, which spanned a few city
blocks, Cho Lon was practically a city. It coexisted side by side with
Saigon like an unattractive sibling; it was grimy, bustling, cacopho-
nous. The buildings were crammed together, as if they grew on top
of one another. Every door was a storefront with bins of goods, pro-
duce, and meats spilling onto the sidewalk. Upstairs were offices
with placard billboards and living quarters with laundry hanging out
the windows. The city generated its own breeze, a mixture of sewage,
garbage, aromatic noodle soup, baked buns, dishwater, roast duck,
and mildew.
It was, in fact, the powerhouse of South Vietnam. Cho Lon Chi-
nese controlled the vast majority of trading houses, which also han-
dled the shipping and warehousing of every conceivable commodity
for domestic consumption and export.
The buses delivered us to a three-story hotel on a wide commer-
cial street. Typical of the low-end Chinese establishments, it was a
sad, dark, dingy place, manned by a humorless middle-age Chinese
who couldn’t summon a greeting or a smile. The lobby was an eight-
by-eight-foot space with a wooden bench and a board painted with
the hotel rules in Chinese and Viet. It was devoid of decoration—not
a single painting, poster, or potted plant. The windowless rooms were
small and hot, with clumps of cobwebs in the corners. The ceiling
fans did nothing but draw out the reek of mildew and cigarettes from
the peeling walls. Stuffy air from the hallway oozed into the rooms
through wooden screens above the doors. There was a communal
bathroom on each floor. Surprisingly, there was one redeeming fea-
ture in the building: the toilet. It was a squat affair with a cast-iron
water tank mounted up near the ceiling. Back in Hanoi, where there
was no sewage system, we only had pit toilets filled with calcium
oxide powder, the compost collected periodically by municipal work-
ers using ox-drawn carts. A flush toilet, I thought, was surely a sign
of civilization.
But Saigon held little prospect for us to make a new life. The
first week, Father roamed about town looking for work only to return
well after dark empty-handed. With the Chinese manager patrolling

the hall to keep people from cooking in the hotel, Stepmother made
do with greasy Chinese fare and low-grade rice from street stalls. We
gathered on the floor and ate the lukewarm food Stepmother laid on
the straw mat.
Father didn’t eat much. He sat slump-shouldered, shaking his
head, talking in his quiet, defeated voice. “There’s nothing. It’s hope-
less. They won’t hire me because I’m not Chinese.”
Stepmother said, “Can you look elsewhere?”
“The Chinese control everything; they own everything. Look
around you; they even got the government contracts to house us
northerners.” Father sighed. He had handled a fair amount of gov-
ernment transactions in Hanoi and knew how profitable it could be.
But it was easy to forget our dire situation because the ultimate
entertainment center in Saigon sat directly across the street from the
hotel. It was an ugly, enigmatic compound the size of three city
blocks enclosed by a tall, corrugated sheet-metal wall, looking very
much like a giant construction site. There was not even a single bill-
board over the gate to hint at what was within. A policeman guarded
the entrance and enforced a single rule: No shirt, no entry. Bare feet,
body odor, and rags, however, were acceptable. Men, women, and
children of all ages passed through at all hours. The place bustled
during the day, but at night, it turned into a raging carnival.
It was owned by Mr. Vien the Seventh, the biggest mafia boss in
South Vietnam, who had his own army based in a forest between
Saigon and Vung Tau. The establishment originally started as a casino,
but it grew to provide every service, material good, and entertainment
imaginable. It grew until it became true to its name—The Great
World. Beneath the great span of its interlacing roofs were jewelers,
gold dealers, pawnshops, clothing stores, exotic-medicine purveyors,
herbalists, massage parlors, theater stages, private rooms for hourly
rental, opium lounges, teahouses with hostesses, nice restaurants,
little noodle stands, food stalls, candy shops, bakeries, and an amuse-
ment park with, among other rides, two merry-go-round carousels
and our favorite, the bumper-car arena. It even had its own climate,
controlled by fans and vents.
Allowance in hands, we followed other refugees into the Great
World. We lost ourselves in the crowd of gamblers, drinkers, opium
users, whores, pimps, crooks, businessmen, and entertainers. While
my brothers and I stayed close to the amusement park area, wasting
most of our money on bumper cars, my cousin Tan ran off alone to
the gambling tables.
Even Father could not resist the draw of the Great World. Within
a week, he abandoned his job search and surrendered himself to the
familiar comfort of the pipe. Day after day, he woke up, got dressed
as though he were going to an interview, and strolled across the
street directly to the opium lounge inside the Great World.
It had begun—his last, irrecoverable descent. At night, phantom
ants crawled up his legs and kept him awake. We children took turns
kneeling at his bedside to massage his limbs, kneading the atrophied
flesh to ease his ruined nerves. Rigorous at first, then more softly in
tiny, gradual increments. Slowly, gently. Slowly, gently. The addict’s
lullaby. It was like putting a child to sleep.
about the author
Andrew X. Pham is the author of the memoir Catfish and

Mandala: A Two-Wheeled Voyage Through the Landscape
and Memory of Vietnam, which won the Kiriyama Pacific
Rim Award, and the translator of Last Night I Dreamed of
Peace: The Diary of Dang Thuy Tram. He is the recipient of a
Whiting Award and lives in Hawaii.
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The Eaves of Heaven

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Pham_9780307381217_1p_fm_r1.

qxp 2/26/09 7:09 PM Page iii

Thong Van Pham

Copyright © 2008 by Andrew Pham

All rights reserved.

Three Rivers Press and the Tugboat

Originally published in hardcover in

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-

Printed in the United States of America

design by barbara sturman

First Paperback Edition

17 쏔 The Ambush 107

It seems that as memoirists, we are not historians, not even

condition of our lives. It did not occur to us to scorn it or discard it

On the 28th of July, two years ago, my family had

His phrasing sounded very odd. Older people flinched, as North

well after dark empty-handed. With the Chinese manager patrolling

about the author

Andrew X. Pham is the author of the memoir Catfish and

Sign up for our

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